07 August 2005
Thomas Mann’s 1912 novella "Death in Venice" tells the story of Gustave Ashenbach, a great German writer who has lost his inspiration. He reluctantly travels from Munich to Venice – into the demon South – to recuperate. Instead, in what has been considered Mann’s treatise on critical method, Ashenbach contemplates the very essence of his intellectual existence as he succumbs, awkwardly, to the carefree will of the spirit. In his fall, he lusts after a 12-year-old Polish adonis named Tadzio, before succumbing less awkwardly to the city’s cholera epidemic.
Any real summation or analysis of "Death in Venice" could be as long as the novella itself. Ashenbach’s story is a dense narrative built upon layers of philosophical thought: the Apollonian compact against Dionysian instinct, the question of intellect against beauty, Northern industrious restraint against Southern villainous ease.
Even with this hourglass of complexity, Luchino Visconti put the work to film in 1971 with Dirk Bogarde as the begrudged Ashenbach, whom Visconti turned into Mahler-like composer. Mahler’s Fifth Symphony also plays a major role in the film.
Benjamin Britten set "Death in Venice" as an opera in 1973, Britten’s last work. While the score is not dissimilar to Mahler – though undeniably Britten – Ashenbach is back to being an author in one of the most dramatic tenor parts in all of opera, written for Britten’s partner Peter Pears.
Discussion of Mann’s original intent and the impulses of the artists who followed aside – since it would be an aside in the discussion upon which we are about to embark – comparison between Visconti and Britten’s works is difficult, for two reasons.
First, cinema uses cameras, distance, lens, angle, color, photography, lighting – i.e. visual means – to convey dramatic emotion. A musical score is generally secondary. Opera is the reverse: visual techniques like lighting, staging, and set design are subservient means to evoke the emotion of the music, which has always been the measuring stick by which to gauge an opera’s quality.
Second, unlike cinema, opera is a changing, evolving, adaptable, and interpretive thing. Like theatre, opera is imbedded in the real world performance – the now – with the added complication of singers breaking constantly into deep emotional song. No two nights of opera are the same. No two performances by different conductors or singers can be said to be the same interpretation. While a similar argument can be made about film – a film cannot be viewed the same way twice because of differences in the viewing atmosphere – the film document itself is always the same; the place does not remain. In opera and theater, the document changes. A different motive entirely.
These thoughts were brought on by the Aug. 4 performance of "Death in Venice" by the Glimmerglass Opera, Cooperstown, N.Y., conducted by Stewart Robertson, which I had the extreme pleasure to see. By way of comparison to Visconti’s film, Robertson and director Tazewell Thompson’s interpretation of Ashenbach was as a distant, inactive, and far more cerebral figure compared to his more lustful and pathetic filmed counterpart, who was willing to speak to the mother of Tadzio – known as The Lady of the Pearls – in a remarkable moment of self-deprecation. In Britten’s opera, the Lady of the Pearls never speaks, let alone Ashenbach trying to speak to her.
Granted, saying "Robertson and Thompson’s interpretation" is a little weighted toward my purposes, since Britten did the most of the work. He wrote Ashenbach this certain way. This leads me – finally, I know – to my point.
Thursday’s opera led to tremendous discussion among the more well-informed attendees on whom I eavesdropped about this specific performance’s worth compared to previous productions. How did the staging affect Ashenbach’s authority? How did the lighting affect it? Why did Robertson take a section at a certain tempo? How did that affect the moment? Was the meaning of that moment different than when Richard Hickox conducted it faster/slower in his recording? How is it different from when Britten oversaw Steuart Bedford conduct it for his recording? Is the piece new, now? Does the piece work still? How am I affected? Why am I amazed? Why do I hate it?
After I had gotten home, lain in bed, and begun to suffer through a sleepless night of thought, I developed a question more in tune with personal expertise: are these discussions that could be had of film?
After all, that shadowy, suspect figure lurking behind the bushes in Hollywood’s backyard – that is, the remake – has been a notable force on the movie schedule for a few years now. "Bad News Bears," "The Longest Yard,""The Manchurian Candidate," and, inexplicably, "Psycho" have all been recently modernized from their American originals. Britain has given the States a Michael Caine trifecta to recreate – "Get Carter," "The Italian Job," and "Alfie" – as well as "The Ladykillers" and "Bedazzled."
Most recent remakes tend to come from more recent international fare. "The Ring," "Dark Water," and, conversely, "Shall We Dance?" are all remakes of Japanese films. 2004's forgettable "Catch that Kid" came from Denmark. "Insomnia," from Norway. "City of Angels" was based on the German film, "Wings of Desire."
This is a partial list, clearly, but what is less clear is the guideline upon which to judge their worth.
Normally, I dismiss the remake as a money-making scheme. Is there something more here? Can we reasonably assess Pierce Brosnan’s Thomas Crowne against Steve McQueen’s? Or is Pierce Brosnan’s merely an effort to expose a new generation to an old story, in which case, should not the new generation take it upon itself to watch Steve McQueen?
When the new "Alfie" came out, I was very vocal in my opposition for a very specific reason. 1966's "Alfie" is one of Michael Caine’s breakthrough performances. It is a remarkable film in terms of its direct address to the camera, and it set Caine up as a leading man, garnering him, not insignificantly, his first Oscar nomination. Why remake it? When the original had so many things going for it that were fresh and new, and the remake could only be fluff, Hollywood certainly should spend its money on something better. Moreover, why am I going to pay $8 to see Jude Law pretend to be Michael Caine, when Michael Caine has always performed a better Caine than anyone? "Go to the library," I told people, "Get the original. It’s better, and it’ll save you eight bucks."
In this sense, I am not sure I am willing to give remakes the benefit of the doubt. William Burden, Ashenbach in the Glimmerglass Opera, cannot go back to see how Pears did it, or, at best, can only do it to the limited extent that he can listen to a recording to hear how someone else sang it. He cannot see the genuine article. Film actors and director can, so what becomes of the film remake is not a new, meaningful revision, but rather pastiche, an ode – a half-hearted, sweaty kind of ode that drips from the lips of unfaithful lovers – to a creativity the filmmakers nowadays seem to lack.
This does not keep today’s filmmakers from trying. Beware the fertile breeding ground of British films of the sixties and seventies that will be remade into American blockbusters. "The Wicker Man" and "The Lavender Hill Mob" are both set to be redone. Also, rumors are flocking that Hitchcock’s "The Birds" is on the slate for renewal – because Van Sant’s "Psycho" did so well -- and there is little doubt that a Japanese or Indian film will need to be remade for American audiences three years after the original release, because Hollywood, it seems, sees Americans as too lazy or too unwilling to see the thing itself, in its original language, contexts, colors, and value. This, I fear, is genuinely true.
Another thought crosses my mind: perhaps I am too quick to judge the remake, and too quick to cast it aside. Perhaps, rather than the shadowy figure in the backyard, the remake is the neighbor who looks in for safety and will one day save your life. What I mean is, the remake offers a more intellectual comparison of film performance, a comparison we certainly cannot have without it.
An example: the standard comments I heard about the new "The Longest Yard" were – besides shock at Courtney Cox’s sudden coming out – that it makes viewers recognize how much the original version is better. That might not be the universal view, but it certainly was a logical one: Adam Sandler was adequate, Burt Reynolds did it better.
Now let us assess, we who have said this. Adam Sandler was unconvincing, a bit snotty, too quick to punch lines, and unremarkable as a leading man. Reynolds has all those things working for him. We have established a comparison not far from that of the opera goers at Cooperstown.
A second example: the original "Ocean’s 11" was a vehicle for the Rat Pack to sing, so the narrative is unrefined, the heist goofy. I particularly like the touch that the insides of the casino safes in "Ocean’s 11" have the name of the casino for the film viewer’s benefit. Would those names really be there, as if he who opened the safe needed to be reminded, on the inside, which casino he worked for?
Soderbergh’s "Ocean’s 11" was much more punchy, believable, well acted, and less gimmicky – though some gimmick remained, with a cast as marquee as his was. The point is, Soderbergh did it better. Make a note of that.
Thus, room is there for maneuver. Is it really adequate though? Film does not have the breadth of history, tradition, or artistic weight as opera. It does not have the stats, so to speak. So does it matter if one or the other works, recent or past? It is just money, after all, a way of getting more product out there to sell.
Instead, if the film community wants its remakes to be revisions rather than redress – it might not, but if – it needs to do more to establish a remake of a film as a separate artistic device from the original. A hard task, given film’s ability to last, but it should conceive the remake as a chance to take a text beyond the point it first achieved. Ashenbach the lustful against Ashenbach the intelligent.
It might not be possible. Film texts may not be able to be stacked, like blocks, until they reach newer meanings. They might not be able to be redone in original and evocative ways. But imagine the discussions that could be had: Caine against Law against the next great Alfie Elkins. Like James Bond, we can ask who did it best. Like James Bond, everyone would have an opinion.
It might be worthwhile to have that kind of discussion, to have that deep an understanding of what the film role could be. A Hamlet could develop, a role every actor must play to claim his/her greatness. An interesting thought: is there a Hamlet now? Is Hamlet Hamlet – Olivier, Gibson, Branagh, and Hawke? Is Hamlet James Bond – Connery, Moore, Lazenby, Dalton, and Brosnan?
That thought leaves something to be desired, but be thankful: the desire should drive.